Death of Omar Khayyam:

XXII:

And we, that now make merry in the Room

They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,

  Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth

Descend, ourselves to make a Couch — for whom?     

XXIII:

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into Dust Descend;

 Dust to Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and — sans End!

XXIV:

Alike for those for TO-DAY prepare,

And those that after tomorrow stare,

  A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries

“Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There”

XXVI:

Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the wise

To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;

  One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;

The Flower that once has blown forever dies. 

XXXII:

There was a Door to which I found  no Key:

There was a Veil past which I could not see:

  Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee

There seemed — and then no more of Thee and Me. 

XLVIII:

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,

With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:

  And when the Angel with his darker Draught

Draws up to thee — take that, and do not shrink.

LXVII:

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash my Body whence the life has died,

 And in a Windingsheet of Vineleaf wrapt,